Dreams
by MissFuneralSong
Summary: With Noah's help, will Peter be able to save Claire from the Company and her nightmares? And more importantly, will he remember her if he does? AU based just after Fight or Flight, may contain traces of peanu--I mean, Paire. Has Mohinder! Ch 9 up!
1. Chapter 1: Mister Stranger Man

DISCLAIMER: I don't own Heroes, NBC does. Note: Constructive criticism is okay, but please don't flame. It's a little slow to start, but it'll get more pacey probably in the next chapter, which will be added whenever it's finished. Thanks!

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DREAMS

Chapter One: Mister Stranger Man

There was a building, somewhere near the middle of a crowded city. People scurried past it, too wrapped up in the hustle and bustle of daily life to even notice it. Perhaps if someone had noticed this particular building, they'd have asked themselves what went on inside it, or maybe they'd have even had enough nerve to go in and investigate.

If they had, their eyes would have met with a sight that was not unlike any other corporate building's interior, with information desks, elevators and restricted-access doors everywhere. Employees hurried off to perform their various menial tasks. The casual observer would have been pacified by this, if not utterly bored, and walked out again (preferably before they had to speak to the very large and disgruntled-looking security officer that was heading their way). But someone a bit more inquisitive, someone who not only knew of the proverb 'never judge a book by its cover' but truly _believed_ with every fibre of their being that you should not, in fact, judge a book by its cover, would not have given up on this mysterious building so easily. They would have lured an employee, by some means, into a secluded area of the floor, knocked them out with a half-brick that'd been very conveniently acquired somewhere outside and stolen their pass-card.

Through the most heavily-guarded and therefore most tempting restricted-access door, they'd have immediately found themselves in an elevator headed, unlike all the other elevators that were open to the general public, down. Puzzlement would briefly befall them, as they are clever and had previously stolen the building layout from some poor civic worker (the half-brick had come in handy there, too). There isn't supposed to be a basement, they'd think, before becoming consumed once again by curiosity. A short walk down a sterile, blindingly-white corridor and through a door marked 'Do not Enter: Medical Personnel Only' would reveal a space rather like a police interrogation room. It was split through the middle by a thin wall, in the centre of which was a huge sheet of glass. On the entrance side were a desk, a couple of chairs and some screens with very complicated medical-type readouts on them. The glass's other side would be the interesting thing, though; the second half of the room contained only one piece of furniture, a white slab which was obviously meant to be a bed of some sort, on which a blonde-haired teenage girl lay. She'd been strapped down with thick restraints and various cords and wires that lead to an identical set of readout-screens were attached to her. She was unconscious, but thrashing about (insofar as that's possible for someone so efficiently restrained) as though she were in immense pain. Her eyes moved underneath their lids, frantically jumping back and forth, glancing at some unseen terrors.

A man was standing by her, watching her intently. He was old-ish, slightly round and very balding. He also was very unkempt; the field of scruffiness he generated would be strong enough to crumple nearby aircrafts. Over his everyman's clothing he wore a white coat and an ID badge that identified him as Maury Parkman. The girl on the bed-slab let out a small shriek. Maury smiled smugly, apparently very proud of himself, though it wasn't clear what for.

At this point, the observer would have been knocked on the back of the head by the door opening and been found by another roundesque older man, this one with glasses and the name of Bob, who would immediately summon security, have the observer taken away, and later yell at the guards for not having done any proper actual _guarding_ because they let the intruder into the building in the first place.

Then he would turn to the glass, chat with Maury Parkman as to the nature of how things were going, and stare at the girl for several minutes afterward. _We finally found her,_ he'd think to himself, grinning like a fox who's bagged a particularly stealthy rabbit. _Claire Bennet is finally ours._

* * *

Some time before this would happen, Peter Petrelli, who'd only very recently discovered that his name was Peter and even more recently that his surname was Petrelli, sat gripping the arms of his seat and trying to avoid looking out the window next to him. He was also trying to avoid hearing the small girl, name of Trisha, who sat imperiously on his right.

He was on a plane, bound from Ireland to New York City, and Trisha, who'd been on three different plane rides by herself and was therefore an expert, was explaining to Peter the source of _every single suspicious noise _the plane made.

'And that noise, that's the wings shifting, 'accause the plane's turning a little bit,' she was saying, seeming not to notice the expression of frozen, ice-cold horror that Peter wore. 'And _that _noise…oh, that's funny. I've never heard _that_ noise afore.'

Peter Petrelli, usually quite a kind, docile young man, was suddenly seized by a very largely unstoppable urge to hurl the child out an airlock. Then he decided to resort to reason.

'Look,' he gasped at Trisha, 'can you please not tell me about the noises? I don't like flying and you're _really _not helping me, okay?'

The little brown-haired girl looked up at him with eyes as wide and bright as stars, gave him a huge, beaming smile and said, in the tones of one talking to a distressed animal, 'Don't worry about it, Mister Stranger Man, I'll tell you about all my plane trips instead!' She seemed extremely proud, like this idea had been a stroke of pure genius. Peter groaned and leaned his head back, staring at the roof of the fuselage; it was plush and red. He must have been on a plane ride before, he reasoned, to get from the United States to the United Kingdom, but he couldn't remember it and decided that he'd rather not. The poor man felt sick as it was, without having to know about all the terrible mystery sounds that were present on _this _flight but not on the last one.

Peter didn't realise that the girl, who absolutely made him feel at every second as though his plane was about to hurtle out of the sky in a burning, crashing, fiery mass, was one of many people the world over who expertly frightened the horse apples out of people like Peter, all the while _not believing they were doing anything wrong._ They were called, in some small circles of airplane-fearers, People Who Make it all That Much Worse. But Peter wouldn't let this girl, or the gut-wrenching terror she instilled in him, deter him from his mission. He'd woken up in a shipping container in Ireland several weeks ago with no memory of where he'd been or _who _he'd been before then, but he was beginning to have dreams. In the night, mostly in that half-conscious time between sleep and waking, he'd see people and places that he couldn't remember but felt certain that he knew them. The majority of them were blurred, except for the faces of two people, one male and one female. The male was slightly older than he, with short brown hair and a very square, political jaw. The female was young, blonde and pretty, with a sad smile. These people were his Past, and he wanted to find them, so that he could also find Peter Petrelli, the man he'd been. New York seemed as good a place as any to start looking.


	2. Chapter 2: Like Soda Cans

DISCLAIMER: I don't own Heroes. Nope. Not mine at all.

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DREAMS

Chapter Two: Like Soda Cans

At the same time that Peter Petrelli was bound for New York City, Claire Bennet sat quietly on the end of her bed in Costa Verde, California, thinking about him. Everyone told her that he'd died that night at Kirby Plaza, but to Claire that was so much horse elbows. Spontaneous regeneration, or whatever it was called—that was her power, and Peter had it too. He'd have healed himself afterwards, she was certain of it.

She _had_ to be certain of it, because the alternative was unbearable even to consider. Still, thoughts, nasty little thoughts made of mental acid, crept unbidden into her mind: if he really _had _healed, then why had he disappeared? Why wouldn't he have come back straight away if he was all right?

_Because, _Claire would thought-snap at them, _he's Peter. He left because he didn't want to risk going nuclear again. He didn't want to hurt anyone. _It frustrated her that, whenever she told herself this, there was always that tiny hint of uncertainty. Trying not to think about it was her preferred course of action, but then that _other_, more persistent thought would appear where it had no right to be.

_What if he's dead?_

Images would always follow this, like soda cans tied to a newlyweds' car: Peter, lying sprawled on the ground in front of her school in Texas, a pool of glistening blood surrounding him and his legs in entirely the wrong positions…Peter, in the living room of the Petrelli mansion, blood on his face and his eyes white and lifeless. That huge piece of glass, the end barely visible amongst his dark hair because it'd been driven in so deep…

Bouncing nervously on her bed, praying desperately that her father wouldn't come upstairs and see the huge, fat tears running down her face, Claire tried thinking of other things, but everything just led her mind back to Peter. She found that she'd broken out in a cold sweat and practically tore her blue sweater off, hands shaking. Underneath she wore the first clean clothes she'd been able to find, since her PJs were dirty; she had ended up in a white t-shirt and…

…_Oh God, no, why did I put that on…_

…The red skirt that had been one-half of her Union Wells cheerleading uniform, back in Texas. The words floated up at her before she could stop them. They were spoken in _his _voice, too, which was completely unhelpful.

_Save the cheerleader. _More tears now, accompanied by big, gasping sobs that were impossibly loud and even more impossible to stop. Her dad would hear her; he was in his room, just down the hall from Claire's. Any second now he'd come bursting through the door expecting to find his daughter in some sort of life-threatening situation, and instead there'd be…

_Just me, _thought Claire, disgusted with herself. _Just me crying like a little kid over a single sentence. Not even a full one, either, just three words!_

'Ugh,' she said aloud, shame stemming some of the flow of tears just as her father came, yes, bursting in. Noah Bennet's eyes, behind his horn-rimmed glasses, had a terrified and hunted look.

'Claire?' he said, a little more loudly than was necessary due to the volume-altering powers of dread. When he was satisfied that his daughter wasn't being murdered by anything (including her closet; he checked inside it), he perched apprehensively beside her and said, 'I heard you crying.' Claire knew her father well enough that she didn't need to work very hard to deduce that this actually meant 'Why were you crying, and where does he live so I can kill him?'

'It's nothing, dad, okay? I was just thinking…' She trailed off, but her expression was as easy to read as a Dr Seuss book. Noah put a comforting arm around her shoulders.

'About Peter,' he finished for her. This time it wasn't a question but a statement of the irrefutable truth. He sighed. 'Claire Bear, I know you miss him, but you need to let him go. He's gone.'

'Yes he is!' Claire practically leapt off the bed, pushing back the niggling uncertainties with her rage. 'Peter's alive, I know he is! Everyone keeps telling me that he's not coming back. Well, I think it's about time somebody tried to _find _him!'

'Claire!' shouted Noah, but his daughter had already thought to herself the teenage equivalent of Blow This for a Game of Soldiers, and so her dad had been left shouting at the last wisp of blonde hair as it whipped out of sight and followed the rest of Claire down the stairs and out of the house.

-

Muggy greyness was torn in half to reveal light and a rather large nose which, incapable of eyeballing, was _nostrilling _Peter. He gave a start and sat bolt upright, nearly colliding with it. The nose was pulled back and he could see that it belonged to the curious face of Trisha the horrible airplane child. Peter rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands, then yawned hugely. 'How long was I out?'

'Who's Claire?'

'What?' Sparing a lightning-fast glance out the window, he saw that they hadn't landed yet. The look wasn't fast enough, however, and combined with hunger and nerves Peter now felt he was about to be violently sick. Unable to help himself, he was treated to a guiltily pleasing mental image of said sickness happening all over the little girl next to him.

'You talked in your sleep.' Trisha was making it clear that she'd withhold all information unless asked nicely for it. Inside her eight-year-old chest beat the heart of a crotchety old lady.

Peter was in no kind of mood for this. 'What did I say while I was asleep?' he demanded, and the girl answered him entirely out of taken-abackness. Clearly people hardly ever _demanded _that she do anything.

'You mumbled a bit at first, and then you went, "no, Claire, don't do that, they'll find you",' she volunteered hesitantly. 'After that you just kept saying, "Claire, Claire" and I started to think you'd gone a little bit mad. I thought about waking you up but it was very enter-tain-ning.' She smirked, fiddling with the big plastic clover she'd no doubt bought in Ireland. Little girls who smirk are generally very suspicious and untrustworthy, but what she'd said had sounded truthful enough. Peter wondered vaguely who Claire was, as the woman who worked the plane's PA system announced they'd be landing in about a half-hour. Maybe Claire, whoever she was, would turn out to be his girlfriend and give him a good smack around the ear for being away so long.

Girlfriend…That felt odd. Both nice and weird at the same time. Never having read Alice in Wonderland, Peter wasn't familiar with the phrase 'curiouser and curiouser', but if he had been, he'd have thought it then. Waiting for the moment when the engines would fail and death, in the form of hard tarmac, would come up to meet him, Peter tried to ignore the sinking feeling in his stomach. It had quite a lot to do with the plane's steady descent but also with his current internal struggle. What if everyone in his old life had already moved on, and didn't want to see him?

Trisha gave him a funny look as he muttered to himself. 'I guess I'll just have to wait and see.'

-

Claire had marched angrily for five blocks before she saw the man that followed her. Catching him in the corner of her vision as she turned into a random street, she forced herself not to freeze in terror.

He was taller than her, round and a little past middle-age, with thinning hair and black-framed glasses. Over-emotional though she often was, Claire could never be called stupid; the hungry look in his eyes would have brought the word 'pervert' or 'rapist' to the mind of any other woman in that situation, but Claire had seen too much in the past six months to be as naïve as that. The word that sprang to _her_ mind was 'Company'.

As she sped up, she glanced around the deserted street for some kind of weapon. _Come on,_ she thought desperately. _A brick, a fence post, an old sofa, anything will do! _But there was nothing. Setting her jaw, determined to go down fighting if at all, Claire swivelled round to face her stalker.

The fact that she'd noticed his presence seemed to delight him; perhaps it made the hunt that much more enjoyable. Stepping closer, he said, 'My, my. If it isn't Claire Butler. Or should I say, Claire _Bennet_?' This was obviously meant to be shocking. The man looked extremely disappointed at Claire's blatant lack of bewilderment, but recovered nicely. 'Yes, I though you might've figured out who I am. I work for your father's former employers.'

'I know that.' The words lashed out like a snake, swift and chock full of venom.

He ignored this. 'The Company has spent quite some time looking for _you_, Claire. You're very important to us. What you can do has the potential to help a lot of people.' His words dripped so much honey that all the ants on the sidewalk stopped what they were doing and stared up at him expectantly. 'If you'll just come with me, we'll…'

'You're lying,' Claire snapped, interrupting him. 'You don't want to help people, you just want to take me away so you can _test _me. Well, I'm not going _anywhere _with you!' The last sentence had been yelled. The Company man's eyes darted around, making sure none of the neighbours had heard. Then he turned and beckoned to someone Claire hadn't noticed before.

Another man strode toward her; Claire gave an audible gasp of surprise. This newcomer was about the same age and build as his associate but with no glasses and darker hair. His eyes were wide and bloodshot, making him seem paranoid and slightly mad.

'This is my friend Mr Parkman,' said the first man, making 'Mr Parkman' sound about as menacing as 'Mr Hitler'. 'He's new at this job but his methods are _very _effective. Either you come with me, the easy way, or…'

'Or?' Claire whispered, not too terrified yet to take up the challenge.

'Or Mr Parkman will make you _wish_ you'd chosen the easy way.'

* * *

If you actually read this far, congratulations! You win Mohinder's fancy shoes! Peter didn't feature much in this chapter, but don't fret, Peterfans! I'll make up for it next time. See you then. 


	3. Chapter 3: Big Pigeon Enclosure

DISCLAIMER: Once again, Heroes is not mine.

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DREAMS

Chapter Three: Big Pigeon Enclosure

Phonebooks were wonderful things, Peter mused as he dug around elbow-deep inside his dresser drawer. They could help you find just about anyone, so long as you didn't stumble into, say, Tokyo carrying a Yellow Pages from Utah. Yelping and withdrawing his arm from the mess of shirts and underwear because he'd gotten on a spider's last nerve, Peter wondered whether he was the first person who'd ever used a phone book to find out their _own_ address. He felt like such an individual for several seconds, before realising that more people than he could _count_ had probably suffered from either amnesia or intoxication in their lives. He deflated.

In his search of the apartment he still had trouble thinking of as his, Peter had encountered several awkward-looking family photos, an on-the-verge-of-avalanche dirty laundry mountain and so much unopened mail that his kitchen felt like an entire forest's graveyard, but no sign of any kind of address book, rolodex or other means of keeping track of everyone he knew. _Sorry, _he corrected himself, _everyone I _did _know._

He also found a large, American-flag-themed button that said 'Vote Petrelli', and at that point felt as though his mind could not have been more thoroughly blown.

Just as he was on the verge of giving up, walking slowly and disappointedly toward the front door, his shoe caught on something that had gone hitherto unnoticed. As he flew forward, in that split second before he involuntarily kissed the ground, he _remembered_. This feeling of weightlessness, of endless and absolute freedom, was so familiar. So _real_. It was such an absurd concept, Peter knew, but so were lightning out of your hands and moving things with your mind, both things he'd very recently done.

Then, in his mind's eye, he saw buildings flying past him at speed. The Empire State Building, gone just as quickly as it had come, and then he circled back around to a rooftop that he _knew_ (though he didn't know how), one with a sort of fiddly cherub-statue bit and a big pigeon enclosure.

Letting this memory, his first _real _remembrance of his Past, envelop him, Peter didn't even notice that, when he'd been sent flying, he'd _kept on _flying. Right into the opposite wall.

The sound his face made when it hit and pierced the flimsy plaster can only be described as _phut_. He extricated himself and felt a stab of pain on his forehead. A quick mirror check revealed a deep gash, pouring ; he wiped most of it away in the bathroom sink and felt an odd sort of tingling at the edges of the wound. He was healing, rapidly.

_Oh, yeah, _he thought. _There's that, too._

Peter returned, a little unsteadily, to the scene of the and found that he'd tripped over the protruding edge of a small, rectangular chunk of floor that had been cut out. It was the kind of thing that nobody would even know was there unless they were looking for it. Or tripping over it. Bitterly, because _phut_-ing into the wall had _hurt_, he clawed at the chunk until there was enough edge for him to hold it and jiggle it free. It turned out that it was there to cover a small hollow in the floor, in which was nestled an utterly unremarkable, blank-covered notebook. On the inside cover, in an untidy but still legible scrawl that must have been his own, the name 'Peter Petrelli' was written, followed by a brief scribble showing that, if someone was really _that _bored, they could make the word 'Peter' out of 'Petrelli'.

Peter replaced the patch of floor and took the notebook with him to his threadbare couch, where he sat with a dusty _plonk_ and began reading. It was half an address book and half a journal; he was a bit surprised at how enamoured he seemed to be with a woman named Simone, and became even more surprised after arriving at the page that said 'Simone was killed today'. Several pages after that were left blank, then three-quarters of the way through he found one on which was written, in a thick black marker, 'Claire's dad'. There was a cell phone number underneath.

Snatching his coat from the back of a chair and some change from a jar on the kitchen counter, Peter hurried out of his apartment, not bothering to lock the door because he'd found it unlocked anyway and in any case didn't have a key, and darted out into the street.

Payphones were wonderful things…

-

'Peter!'

Claire ran to him, taking in every detail as she went, with eyes that had been starved of him for far too long. He looked exactly as he had when she'd last seen him, wearing the same clothes, still with that silly lock of hair that always obscured the right side of his face. Tears fought for freedom, not the tears of pain and loss that she associated with Peter nowadays, but tears of absolute joy and love.

_The family kind of love, _she reassured herself, a little too quickly.

There was a small collision, then Claire laughed and sobbed at the same time (which is often a very painful and embarrassing experience), burying her head in his chest as he wrapped his arms around her. For the first time in four months she felt happy, safe. To this dishevelled and forlorn , whose eyes shone like the brightest sun for one man and one man only, Peter smelled incredible and looked exquisite. She raised her head so she could see his face, and beamed at him.

'You're alive, I knew you were alive!'

He returned her beam with a gentle smile. 'Claire,' he whispered, and the sound of his voice caused the floodgates in her tear ducts to open once again. 'Claire, I love you.'

Claire's mind froze. 'You do?' was all she could say. It was nowhere near enough, nothing was. Nothing she could ever do or say could make her good enough for him, this was what her brain screamed at her through the fog. But she didn't care.

'I do,' said Peter, leaning in toward her. She closed her eyes, waiting for the moment that would condemn her to an afterlife of fire, brimstone and little pointy-eared guys with big forks. But she _didn't care_. An entire world of demons was tolerable, if only for the sake of an angel.

The moment never came. As his grip on her waist slackened, she opened her eyes. Then she closed them. Then she opened them again, and screamed. filled her, flushing out all of the joy and love, as she stared at Peter. His eyes were wide and blank, his skin was pale…and the top of his head was gone. poured from what remained of his forehead, dripping onto the ground, onto her shirt, her legs, her arms. In an instant Claire was soaked in it, and suddenly it wasn't Peter who held her but Sylar, grabbing her by the throat, choking her, while Peter lay on the ground behind him…dead…

Sylar's dark eyes bored into hers and rendered her unable to move. Her throat was on fire from the pressure of his fingers; she tried to scream, to cry out for help, but all she could do was croak and gasp. Crying, not for her own life which very soon would be taken from her, but for Peter's, which had already slipped away, she stared fearfully at the man of her nightmares.

He smiled, the most evil, horrible smile Claire had ever seen, and in a voice made of pure darkness he said, 'Hi, Claire.'

Then she woke up.

-

Noah Bennet sat on the plush couch in his living room, holding his wife Sandra close as she silently cried. His son Lyle stayed vigil on an ottoman, in clear view of the front door. It had been three hours since Claire had stormed out, and the police had informed her distraught family that several witnesses had seen a matching her description being carried away by two men. The story went that she'd had an argument with one of them and started yelling, at which point the other man had appeared from behind some person's hedge. More words were exchanged and then the second man had grabbed Claire by the wrist and she'd collapsed.

The police had since left and the Bennet family (aka the Butlers) were waiting to hear from them. The unfortunate thing about police is that they like to keep you waiting. The tension in the spacious room was thick enough to use as winter clothing.

This was why Noah sprang from the couch before the phone had finished its first ring, very much like a guest at an out-of-control trampoline party, ripping the receiver from its cradle and speaking swiftly into it. 'Hello?'

'Hello!' The voice that replied sounded relieved that someone had answered. 'Hello, listen, this is gonna sound a little weird but…who is this?'

'This is Noah Butler,' he said, smoothly slipping into alias-mode. 'Who is _this_?'

He was ignored. 'Is Claire there?' The caller sounded desperate now. Noah was about to invent an excuse as to why his daughter wasn't home, but then several cognitive cogs whirred to life and sent him an urgent message regarding the voice issuing from his telephone. Completely taken aback, Claire's dad ventured,

'Peter?'


	4. Chapter 4: Fish Out of Water

Disclaimer: I don't own Heroes. You all know that. Mmkay, let's go.

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DREAMS

Chapter Four: Fish Out of Water

In normal circumstances, Claire's cheeks would have been saturated with tears. In her current circumstances, so much torment had befallen her in the past twenty-four hours that, eventually, her body's proverbial well had run dry. Even her tears had been taken from her.

The man Claire now knew to be called Bob stared at her from behind a sheet of glass, his eyes totally emotionless. Being tightly fastened to a hard, slab-like bed by thick straps prevented the from smashing bodily through the glass and bludgeoning Bob with his own shoe, but only barely. Instead, she glared daggers of hatred at him as her restraints utterly failed to be expediently loose.

'Why are you doing this to me?' shouted Claire and then, considering the question more thoroughly, added, 'I mean, I understand why you kidnapped me, but…why are you torturing me?' Her voice broke on the last two words, becoming a fearful squeak.

'To avoid…unfortunate incidents. To keep you in line.' This was obviously the most insightful answer Bob was prepared to give. Several seconds passed. 'I have a daughter, you know,' said the man conversationally, as though talking to a new acquaintance at a bus stop rather than a furious, terrified teenage captive. 'She's a little older than you, but you do look very similar.'

'How did you find me?' was what Claire asked next, and it was a question to which she desperately needed an answer; if they'd found her there, when she'd supposed to have been hidden, would her family also be in danger?

'Oh, that's quite an interesting story, actually,' Bob said. 'I'm guessing you're familiar with a young man by the name of West Rosen?'

Claire's poor heart made an hysterical bid for freedom and got stuck somewhere in the vicinity of her throat. Suddenly she knew who the villain of the story was. And it wasn't West.

'A while ago, one of our people was sent out to extract him,' continued Bob, a born monologuer. 'I believe Mr Rosen was only a young boy at the time. I suppose you could hazard a guess as to who it was that brought West in to us?'

'My father,' she answered grudgingly, and knew it was true.

'That's exactly right!' said Bob, delighted. 'Your father took him to our Texas headquarters, a Primatech Paper, where he was injected with a radioactive isotope that allows us, even now, to track his every movement.'

'The scratches.' Claire said this primarily to herself, but Bob was too caught up in the moment to resist responding.

'That's right, the scratches! Anyway, one of our lower-level gentlemen was _checking up _on West, maybe a week ago, when who should he see but…' Bob pointed at her, grinning with glee. '…You. I assume our mutual friend the Haitian relocated you to California because he believed you'd be safe there.' His grin widened like that of the Cheshire cat. 'Seems he was wrong.'

Claire refused to let her relief show, but she was positively singing on the inside. _He doesn't know! _she thought. _They're still safe!_

Having run out of exposition, Bob simply stood looking like an exceedingly large fish out of water. Just as he was about to pass a comment to fill the silence, the door behind him whispered open and in strode Maury Parkman, looking characteristically scruffy. The feeling of victory Claire had had over her family's safety was immediately torn away from her and she was unceremoniously punted into a vacuum of deepest despair.

'You're needed with Suresh,' Parkman told the other man. Whenever he spoke, Maury sounded as unstable as a postal worker who could only stand _one more _assault of the toothy canine variety before handing in both his resignation and his sanity, and up the place.

'All right,' Bob was saying. He nodded in the direction of the . 'Put her back under.'

Maury turned his bulging, mad eyes to Claire. She closed her miserable, tormented ones. 'Please don't,' she begged, when Bob had left the room. 'Please, don't show me that again…please…'

Her screams were trapped in the soundproofed room with her as the nightmares began again.

-

Following a very brief phone conversation with Claire's father, Peter Petrelli had made a beeline for Costa Verde, California, where Noah Bennet met him at the airport. They then found a nearly-deserted bar and ordered water, to the disgruntlement of the surly bartender, who thrust their glasses at them with no shortage of malice. Noah ushered Peter to a table at the rear of the establishment and proceeded to fill the gaps in his amnesiac friend's memory. He didn't tell him _everything_, of course, because that'd take such a long time that the bartender would have to charge them rent. Just the things he _needed_, at that moment, to know.

When he arrived at the part concerning Claire's abduction, he was both relieved and a little bit irked to see Peter's expression; the man's face was blank, but carefully so. There were strong emotions percolating somewhere beneath the surface, emotions that would soon become imperative to the survival of not only Peter, but Claire as well. The part that irked Noah was a feeling he got that, for the time being, it would be a good idea not to let on that Peter's brother was Claire's biological father.

'So the reason I can't remember all this,' Peter said, reviewing, 'is that some guy from Haiti erased all my memories?'

'That's right.'

'But because your daughter can heal herself, I can too, and my brain is regenerating?'

'Yes.'

'And my _brother _can fly?'

'Yes,' replied Noah, 'and by proxy, so can you.' He was growing impatient. After all, his daughter's life was hanging in the balance, and every second spent in explanation was a second wasted.

'So I'm like one half of the Flying Petrelli Brothers.' Peter leaned back in his chair and folded his hands behind his head, looking for all the world like he'd just fallen down a mysterious rabbit hole and now had the distinct impression he'd left his marbles behind. He puffed out his cheeks and blew, absently. Then he said, 'Where is she?'

Despite his worry and frustration, Noah Bennet smiled. Things were finally on track.

'New York,' he said, taking a sip from his glass of water. Now that Petrelli was back from the realm of general obscurity, Bennet couldn't help but think of it as a glass half full.

-

A few hours, one plane trip (which Peter would prefer to forget) and a couple of taxi rides later, and the unlikely duo stood outside a dilapidated apartment building in Brooklyn. It ticked Peter off no end that, after leaving New York to get to California, he'd spent two hours at a seedy airport bar only to turn around and come straight back. As the two of them crossed the street hurriedly and arrived at the front of the structure, he chanced an angry glare at Bennet, then looked up at the place to which they had come. Since it was past eight in the evening, there wasn't really much he could see of it, but it still exuded a general air of untidiness. There were bricks either sticking out too far or chipped away in odd places on the walls, mould was growing over the mortar, and some artistic individual had taken it upon themselves to spray-paint a picture of a and anatomically incorrect woman right on the building's façade, in bright red paint. The name next to her was 'LiNDa'. Some effort had been made to get rid of her, judging from the fact that half her face was rubbed just about away, but she remained resolute.

'Where are we?' Peter inquired. It seemed an extremely clichéd question, but there were some things you needed to know.

'You probably don't remember Dr Suresh in your current state, but the two of you have met before, more than once,' replied Noah. 'This is where he lives.'

Peter was about to say: A _doctor _lives _here_? but decided against it on general principles. Bennet always got an unnervingly ous gleam in his eye whenever they were at risk of wasting time. Instead he stood in the darkness of the deserted footpath and watched Bennet walk toward the front door. The soft, musty glow of the porch light enveloped the man, turning his skin an eerie yellow, as he selected a button from the many mounted on the wall to the left of the door. He held it down for several seconds, producing a low, staticky buzzing noise, and then let it go. From the intercom speaker next to the button mount came a tinny and distorted voice, the voice of a man.

'Who is it?' it said.

'Noah Bennet,' he told the speaker-box stiffly. 'Peter Petrelli is with me. We'd like to speak to Mohinder.'

'He's not here.' There was a pause, during which time a muffled conversation could be heard through the intercom. Then the voice spoke again. 'Molly wants to see Peter. I'll buzz you through.'

* * *

A/N: Okay. That sure took a long time to get done, didn't it? Hopefully there won't be too long a wait next time because I've already written chapters five, six and seven. They just need typing up. Thanks for reading! 


	5. Chapter 5: Hope

Disclaimer: Heroes and all related characters and indicia are property of the people who own them. None of those people are me.

* * *

Dreams

Chapter Five: Hope

'_Peter!'_

As soon as he'd stepped into the apartment, Peter had been hit in the stomach by what appeared to be a flying ball of brown and pink. On closer inspection it turned out to be a small girl with brown hair, about ten years old, wearing a pink nightdress and an expression of great relief. She wrapped her arms round his waist and started babbling frantically, in the way people do to someone who wanders out of a collapsed mine shaft in one piece after having spent a week trapped down it.

'I'm so glad you're all right! Everybody thought you'd died after you exploded in the sky! I _told _them they were wrong but they didn't listen! Do you remember me, Peter? It's Molly, from Kirby Plaza!' This last part was said in response to Peter's look of puzzlement.

'Sorry,' he said apologetically. 'I don't really remember anything lately.'

Molly was pried from Peter by a man around about the same age as Bennet, maybe younger. He had short dark hair, a slightly round and very friendly face and a distinct air of joviality. He was introduced as Matt Parkman, and shook Peter firmly by the hand.

'We've met,' he said, smiling.

'Er…have we?' Peter's returned smile was sheepish. Bennet ushered Matt and Molly wordlessly to the kitchen table, which was small, round, wooden and moderately old, sat them down and explained a few things. He'd done it so often today, Peter thought to himself, that he ought to make a career out of it. That or ushering.

While information was being given out and mulled over, Peter took the chance to examine his surroundings, which felt strikingly familiar to him. The apartment was cheap, and a little messy. He got the feeling that it'd been a lot messier before Molly had moved in. The kitchen was cramped, having just enough space to fit a table and chairs in, and was an extension of the living room, which was also a study. There was a threadbare but still comfortable-looking sofa facing a small TV that was pushed up against one wall. The adjoining wall was covered by a huge map of the world that had pins, strings, photographs and newspaper clippings spread across every inch of it, and something in the depths of Peter's slowly recovering memory told him that it was different to the last time he'd seen it, like it had long since been neglected. Sitting proudly in front of it and taking up a great deal of space was a polished wooden desk that may or may not have been antique; Peter was not the kind of person who knew that sort of thing offhand. It was at the very least mildly expensive. Papers, files, a laptop computer and a silver statue of DNA cluttered its surface. He found this a bit curious, but reasoned that they must belong to the absent Dr Suresh. A nearby door probably led off to some bedrooms and a bathroom. There was an uneven distribution of windows around the place, but they were all coated with decades worth of grime; in the daytime, only the minimum amount of sunlight would be allowed through.

Peter started to wonder whether this was the best environment for a little girl to grow up in, but sitting there at the wobbly little table and swinging her legs idly, Molly seemed perfectly at home.

'So your daughter got kidnapped?' she was saying, concern radiating from her in big, honest waves. 'That's awful!' The small girl appeared to be weighing options in her mind for a moment, and then her face took on a look of rock-hard determination like only a child's face can. 'I'll find her for you.' This statement had as much certainty in it as the sentence 'The sky is blue' has. Molly scooted her chair delicately backward, then all but leapt out of the seat and ran off down the short hallway.

All three men watched her go, dumbfounded. Then Peter saw realisation dawn for Matt and Noah, and felt left out.

Molly returned from wherever she'd gone, out of the darkness of the rest of the apartment, carrying under her right arm an atlas that was the size of her entire chest. In her left hand, she held a pushpin between thumb and forefinger. She slid back on to her chair, opened the book and, to Peter's awe, found Claire…

-

…Who was, at that moment, deeply embroiled in her own personal worst nightmare. She thrashed ineffectually against her restraints, eyes open but not seeing, staring into the agonising world inside her head. Occasionally she screamed out, whether for help or just for the sake of screaming it was impossible to determine.

Mohinder watched from behind the glass screen in horrified fascination. His gaze kept creeping away from the girl to the terrible figure of Maury Parkman, who stood over her like a reigning king. Right on cue, Maury whipped his head round and focused his mad, bulging goldfish eyes on Dr Suresh, who immediately looked away. Then, with a satisfied smirk, the evil man would turn back to Claire, but still he kept a watch on Mohinder out of the corner of his vision. Men who spend their lives knee-deep in the nightmares and fears of others learn not to let _anyone _out of their sights. Because sometimes a person's deepest, darkest fear is that somebody will see the murder in their hearts, and discover the terrible things they've done and are thinking of doing again. It made you lose your faith in just about everything, and _find _a great deal of paranoia.

Bob was in the glass-protected ante-room with Mohinder, calmly surveying the scene with the air of one viewing an amusing circus act. He barely glanced up as the professor said, 'Is this really necessary?' His voice was rather higher than usual as he choked back the terror and disgust that were both fighting for the freedom of being spoken.

'Of course,' Bob replied, with a degree of absolute certainty that Molly Walker could only dream of achieving. 'We can't afford another accident. You _do _remember what happened with Niki?'

Mohinder shuddered, thinking of the poor security guard who'd have to spend the rest of his life with only one leg. 'Yes,' he said quietly. 'I remember. But surely Claire doesn't have that kind of strength? I thought her power was spontaneous regeneration!'

This earned him the unpleasant reward of Bob looking at him as if he were a small child who didn't understand why people had to breathe. He was not a man to whom scowling came naturally, but for his condescending colleague he did his best.

'Ye-es, that _is _her ability,' Bob said, more slowly than was entirely appropriate. 'But spontaneous regeneration means that, theoretically, Claire could smash through this big sheet of glass here and come away without a scratch. Therefore, precautions were taken.'

'Well, yes, but…' Mohinder struggled to find words that illustrated the cruel, inhumane way in which this plan was flawed. Giving up, he settled for proposing a compromise. 'Surely the restraints are enough of a precaution? I mean, she couldn't escape from them, could she? And it's better than this…_torture_.' The last word was said with an immeasurable amount of distaste, aimed in Bob's direction. He either didn't notice it or pretended that he hadn't.

'At any rate, Dr Suresh. Do you have what you need?'

The doctor gave scowling another earnest go. 'Yes, we've taken ten pints of blood from her already, thanks to the incredible rate at which her blood cells regenerate. Soon, with enough resources at our disposal, we should be able to ascertain exactly what element of her genetic code allows her to heal.' This was stated with a tone that suggested that Mohinder seriously doubted he'd be given 'enough resources', and would simply have to make do.

Bob smiled absently while he continued to monitor the squirming Claire. 'Good. Make it happen. I have faith in you, Dr Suresh.' This was a not-so-subtle hint that the geneticist was no longer welcome and should depart immediately.

He did so, walking awkwardly out into the hall. The door closed behind him with a small _click_, but this sound did not penetrate the haze that filled his mind as he made his way down the passage. Mohinder was having Ideas. Despite the severe lack of father during his general childhood period, he was raised with a clear view of what was Right and what was Wrong; the lessons drilled into his adolescent brain by his mother and grandmother fully justified the capital letters. Knowing the difference between Right and Wrong, Good and Evil, Black and White…well, if you didn't have that, then what else was there? Just chaos, and when there was nothing but chaos, everything went bad.

Kidnapping, imprisoning, experimenting on and torturing a defenceless teenage girl, Mohinder knew, was very Wrong. Bob had to be stopped before someone got killed. The things the Company were doing…Mohinder's research was for a good cause, but the rest of it…he couldn't just stand by and let it happen, it wasn't in his nature. Those sorts of things were Not Done.

Already the sown seeds of a plan had begun to bloom in his mind. It was a crude plan, inelegant and last-minute, but it would still be effective. And once he'd done his part, he'd call Bennet for the rest. All Mohinder needed to do was get his hands on a sufficiently heavy blunt object, and hope.

* * *

A/N: Yay, it's Mohinder! And next chapter will introduce another character that you all know and not necessarily love! Try and guess who it is! So far, in terms of written-down-in-a-notebook-but-not-yet-typed-upness, I'm halfway done with chapter eight. I like chapter seven a lot, it's quite actiony. Aaaanyway, thanks for reading yet another chapter of my crazy imaginary Heroes universe! And if Mohinder proves to be popular enough...I smell a spin-off...


	6. Chapter 6: Please Work

Disclaimer: Heroes isn't mine. Now that we've established that...

* * *

DREAMS

Chapter Six: Please Work

It was a big building. A _big _building. The number of floors it had was so far into double-digits that it was almost into _triple_-digits. Peter stared up at it, having given up on counting its storeys at twenty-nine, with a mixed expression of determination and apprehension on his face.

Noah stood beside him, glancing almost nervously around the plaza as he fiddled with the pistol he'd been given by Matt Parkman. He released the magazine, looked surreptitiously into its vacated space in the bottom of the grip, and blew. For his trouble, he was awarded a faceful of dirt, rust and tiny flecks of iron.

'Didn't he ever _clean _this?' Bennet muttered, wiping his face on his suit-sleeve. He removed his horn-rimmed glasses and polished the lenses with the hem of his jacket. This produced a small _squik-squik _noise. The glasses were replaced and the magazine was returned to its slot, dislodging more firearm-typical gunk in the process.

Turning to Peter, suddenly all business, Bennet said, 'Are you ready? This is the point of no return for us. As soon as we walk through those doors—' he pointed '—security will be alerted. The Company knows who we are and knows we're a danger to them. So the security will be the kind that shoots first—'

'—And asks questions later?' Peter interjected, familiar with the cliché.

'No,' answered Noah. 'There are no questions they would possibly want to ask us. So, are you ready?'

'Uh,' said Peter. It didn't inspire a lot of confidence. 'Why exactly is it that only you have a gun?'

'Because Matt only had the one. And with your abilities? You won't be needing one.'

'Oh, okay.' Peter considered this briefly. 'Yeah, I'm ready. Let's go.'

Bennet smiled a vicious kind of smile. It was a smile that said: When we get in there, people will feel _pain_. And none of those people will be us.

-

An hour and a half had passed, from the time Mohinder had formulated his plan, and during that time he'd found a quite helpful medium-sized fire extinguisher. In the mood to move on up to smaller and more deadly things, however, he had taken advantage of a patrolling security officer who had unwittingly patrolled right into his path.

_Konk _was the sound the extinguisher made when it became intimate with the back of the guard's head. A quick search of his belt turned up the traditional flashlight and set of keys, and…

_Yes. _This was going to _work_!

-

It took several seconds after the pair strolled through the sliding glass doors for the automated facial identification system, which had cost the Company ridiculous amounts of money, to register that they were Bennet and Petrelli, dangerous and probably armed. The alarm was one of the short-burst, piercingly loud, wheedley-sounding variety that really got people panicking. The inhabitants of the building who were ordinary civilians and therefore Not Paid Enough for This were already flooding out, past Peter and Noah, into the street. Others took up their weapons and fired, but with a lazy wave of his arm Peter stopped the bullets in midair and dropped them to the floor. They made little echoing pinging sounds as they hit the marble tiles.

'Kill the lights, would you?' said Bennet. Peter raised his right arm up into the air and flicked out his fingers. Sparks of lightning, tiny and glowing blue, leapt from his fingertips and fizzled their way into the electrical wiring, running criss-crosses along the ceiling. Every light on the ground floor, and the irritating whine of the alarm, went out. People screamed or swore in protest, and a muffled cry suggested that someone had fallen over, but Bennet grabbed his partner by the arm and pulled him through the darkness with absolute certainty that he was headed in the right direction.

There was urgency in his actions as he directed Peter's hands to what felt like the up-down buttons of an elevator, and the urgency transferred to his voice as he hissed, 'Make it work!'

'What? How?' came the bewildered reply.

'You met Micah Sanders! He talks to machines, so can you! _Do it_!'

'Okay, I'll try.' Frustrated at this lack of forewarning that he'd be required to talk to an elevator, Peter shut his eyes tightly and concentrated. Since he had no idea how technopathy happened, he just thought the words 'Please work' over and over again in his mind, aiming them pointedly at the keypad beneath his fingers.

After an immeasurable time, during which curse words and pot shots could be heard in the space behind them, the little lights in the buttons sprang to life and a loud _ding! _told them that the machine was back in order. Quickly, the two of them clambered into it. Bennet jabbed the 'door close' button before Security had a chance to get to the elevator, then surveyed his companion approvingly.

'Everything still there?' he inquired. Peter nodded, and Noah saw that he bore an expression of grim resolve. 'Good. Well done.'

-

On the slab in the middle of the white room, Claire lay gasping and sobbing helplessly, and hated herself for it. She was supposed to be searching for Peter! It was bad enough that she'd let herself get kidnapped by the Company, but now! Now all she did was lay here under these big, tough straps and get tortured! _That _was about as useful to Peter as an ashtray on a motorcycle. Through tears, she stared defiantly up at the dreadful, looming mountain that was Maury Parkman. His face put sewer rats to shame, and his appearance was very much like that of a large, scraggly lion that has been stalking a gazelle.

How could she escape? What could she _do_?

She cast around for something, _anything_. The only things in the room with her were her bed, if it could be called that, and the fearsome Maury. Neither of these could really be used as tools of a getaway.

Then a thought struck her. There was _something _else in here, if not in such a literal sense. Maybe, just maybe, it was something Claire could _use_…

-

The safety catch was released. Mohinder wasn't exactly at home around guns, and so his hands shook slightly as he held it to his chest, the mouth of the ghastly thing facing the upper corner of the opposite wall. He waited. It was a nervous, fidgety, unpleasant wait.

After what seemed a hundred years, the door was pushed open on hinges quiet as silk. Bob stepped out and immediately halted as he felt the cold steel of impending death gently press its way into his ear. His eyeballs swivelled around to identify his would-be assassin, and his muscles un-tensed. But only slightly.

'Now, Doctor,' he said carefully. 'Is this any way to treat a friend?'

The gun's muzzle was pushed further against his eardrum. 'You're no friend of mine, _Bob_.' The name was spat. 'You're a criminal! You're insane! And I refuse to stand idly by while you torture this poor girl!'

'Now, Mohinder, I already told you. Claire Bennet's…imprisonment is a _necessary _precaution!' Both men heard it at the same time, the hint of uncertainty he'd accidentally let slip into his voice. He wasn't _sure _that Mohinder wouldn't kill him. And now, Mohinder _knew _it.

'No, Bob.' The professor's voice was quiet, and this in itself was more terrifying to the Company man even than the dangerous firearm threatening to pierce the tissue of his inner ear. 'No, I don't think it _is _necessary. So now you're going to go in there and tell Mr Parkman to let her go.'

Bob swallowed. 'And if I don't?'

He was grabbed roughly by the shirt collar and pulled so that Mohinder could whisper into his ear and still be heard past the blockage of the gun.

'If you don't…then I _will _kill you.'

-

The elevator doors _ding_ed open on the fortieth floor to reveal a lengthy stretch of white hallway, punctuated by odd, abstract paintings that were probably meant to make the place more jolly. Their actual effect was that of giving even non-employees the deep desire to murder whoever had painted them.

Peter stood poised to zap someone, and so was extremely disappointed when the opportunity to do so did not present itself. A bout of impatience, the likes of which were becoming increasingly frequent of late, gripped Bennet, who towed Peter from the elevator and out into the deserted space.

'What now?'

'You go ahead,' suggested Noah, glancing at the walls as though they might decide to fall on him.

'Great,' mumbled Peter, as he sidled along the wall and peeked round the corner.

There was another art-lined corridor here, containing the occasional closed door. It also contained a blonde-haired figure of the distinctively female persuasion, whose back was turned. Peter felt relief swamp him as he stepped out into the open.

'Claire!' he shouted happily. Then, as the woman turned to face him, he realised that things had gone very, very bad.

'Wrong,' she said, her eyes and her smile glittering with malicious glee. 'Elle.'

* * *

AN: Oh my goodness, what a surprise! Elle's so fun to write that I couldn't help myself, I had to include her. It's a semi-important role, like that of Mohinder. And for all you lovely readers who are Claire fans and feel she's been given the short end of the proverbial stick, never fear! She gets her own back, and soon... 


	7. Chapter 7: Survival Instinct

Disclaimer[insert standard disclaimer here.

* * *

DREAMS

Chapter Seven: Survival Instinct

Sparks went flying from Elle's hands straight toward Peter before he even had time to react. He was hit squarely in the chest and flung back against the wall, where he struggled into a crouching position, panting and waiting for the searing, white-hot pain to subside. Elle sneered at him.

'I know about _you_,' she said, and it occurred to Peter that her voice and expressions were very much like that of a child, the kind that sets fire to ants with a magnifying glass. 'You're Peter Petrelli! I got in a lot of trouble when I didn't bring you back from Ireland, you know.'

She fired off another burst of electricity, but this time he was expecting it. Focusing on the memory of the first time _it_ had happened, he closed his eyes…and felt the lightning pass clean through his stomach as though he were made of air. It hit the wall behind him, showering his back with plaster, and fizzled out.

Closing his eyes, it turned out, had been a mistake. Elle shot another bolt at him, which he unfortunately didn't see coming. He was hit full in the face, smashed backward into the wall again, and this time he heard his skull sickeningly. Hot pain covered his face, where tiny sparks still led, and there was a steady ache coming from the back of his head, accompanied by an unpleasant trickle. Peter reached around with his fingers and felt wetness there. _Blood. Great._

'I suppose it worked out, though,' Elle continued, advancing on him, her high-heeled boots making little _tik-tik_s on the tiles. 'Cause here you are, and I can just capture you now! Daddy'll be so proud of me!' Her face lit up at this prospect. 'And, of course, I'll get my _toy_ back.'

Let her keep talking, that was the thing. While she was busy spilling her guts, he could think of a way to defeat her. 'What do you mean, toy?' he asked, baiting her.

Elle took it. 'Oh, you don't remember?' She pulled a pouty face. 'Aw. I'm hurt. We were pretty close, you and me. Saw each other _all _the time.'

As she explained their entire complicated history, most of which sounded like a complete fabrication, Peter took advantage of the distraction, shuffling over to the corner and then to the adjacent wall, still crouched. The effect was that of a drunken crab with a bad case of vertigo, but it gained him a better position. Quick as a shot, stopping Elle mid-sentence, he sprang to his feet and reached out an arm toward the woman. Thrashing, and protesting in words not suitable for polite company, she was lifted off the ground by some invisible force. Her arms snapped to her sides and she struggled to free them, looking as though she was doing a midair penguin impersonation.

'Let me go!' she screamed. 'Let me go, _now_!'

Peter was smug. 'No, I don't think so.'

Unfortunately for Peter, bad things always happen to smug people. He had neglected to rob Elle of the use of her individual fingers. One was awkwardly wiggled until it pointed at him.

'Eat this!' she screeched, hitting him with a bolt that, by sheer luck, struck directly between his eyes. He flew backward and slid a little way across the polished floor. His hold on Elle was released; she fell to the ground with an unceremonious _thump_, quickly got herself into an upright position and extended a hand in the fallen Peter's direction somewhat menacingly. He tried to shuffle away, but had to fight back a scream of agony as his body told his mind that the fall had broken his right arm. The pain spread through him, becoming even worse when he glanced down and realised that elbows shouldn't bend that way.

'Looks like it's the end of the line, Mr Hero,' taunted Elle as she took in the pitiful figure before her. 'Any last words before I turn you into a French fry?'

'Yeah, I've got a few.' The voice wasn't Peter's. Elle's head whipped round to the corner of the hallway and her eyes widened in shock. While she and Peter had been fighting their epic, supernatural battle, Bennet had been left by the elevator and forgotten. Now he stood there bold as brass, gun pointed at Elle's head, a look of absolute ousness on his face. He reached Peter in two strides.

'You all right?'

'I think so,' said Peter, slotting his arm back into place with a series of crunches and rubbing the spot on his head where he'd bled only a moment ago. The wounds, and the electricity burns, were all gone. 'Yeah. Yeah, I'm okay. Thanks.'

'Good.' Noah hadn't taken his eyes or his gun off Elle, who was apparently trying to insinuate herself into a locked door. '_You _keep still!' he barked. She did so, raising her hands in the most inoffensive way she could manage.

'What are we gonna do with her?' asked Peter, eyeing the woman suspiciously.

'Miss Bishop,' announced Noah, 'is going to take us to Claire.'

-

Meanwhile, Robert Bishop, her father, was having a very bad day indeed. He, too, had his hands raised submissively because someone was pointing a weapon at him. Slowly, so as not to upset Mohinder, he walked backwards into the room from whence he'd come, the professor following cautiously.

'Maury,' he called as he went. 'Maury, there's been a change of plans. I'm gonna need you to release Miss Bennet.'

Parkman surveyed the situation, his nostrils flaring in internal calculation. After about a minute of intense silence and stillness, he reached a decision. 'No.'

Bob was taken aback. 'What do you mean, _no_? He's going to shoot me if you don't!'

To reinforce this point, Mohinder shoved the man forward into the protective glass and thrust the barrel of the gun into the little ridge where Bob's skull joined his spine. 'Release her,' said Mohinder. 'Do it, or I'll kill him!'

A sinister, wheezy, maniacal laughter erupted from Maury, rocking his entire body with the force of it. It seemed to go on for far longer than was necessary, and then it stopped abruptly and at entirely the most inappropriate moment. When next the mad man spoke, his voice dripped with malice. 'So kill him. What do I care? You'll never be able to get to _me_. Try it and I'll trap you in your worst nightmare, faster than you can _blink_!'

'Maury!' Clearly Bob had been expecting some degree of loyalty from his minion, although _why _was a complete mystery. Maury Parkman's survival instinct was stronger even than his need for oxygen. His policy was: Bury anyone along the way, as long as _you_ come out alive in the end.

The plan Mohinder had formulated was falling to pieces before his eyes. Obviously Parkman had no idea how this was supposed to go, so he'd better think of another course of action. And fast. Because he didn't like the insane, goggle-eyed way that he was being stared at, not one bit.

'I'll put you under, Suresh,' Maury threatened, words full of acid. 'I'll trap you, and you'll never escape. You'll go _crazy_. Just like this…' he bent down to Claire and whispered in her ear, '…pretty little .'

Mohinder flinched as Claire let out a terrible scream, arching her back as far as she could under the heavy restraints. Kicking her legs wildly, she yelled, 'No! No! _Nooo!_" And then, gradually, she settled. There was a small, mournful whimper that twisted Suresh's stomach into knots.

'Oh my God,' he breathed. Then his voice grew slightly in volume as he addressed Maury. 'You monster!'

Maury just continued to grin madly through rotting teeth. This angered Mohinder beyond belief, and his rage drove him to take action. All he had to do was be quicker than Parkman, right? It seemed simple enough. Tightening his grip on the stolen gun, Mohinder Suresh did something he'd only ever done once before.

He pulled the trigger.

* * *

Eight and nine are already written, expect to see them soon. Thanks for reading, as always. Poor Mohinder, he doesn't like to do such bad things but he's always driven to them somehow...


	8. Chapter 8: The Wrath of Gods

AN: Finally, I bring you another chapter of Dreams! The penultimate chapter, in fact. And the final chapter was completed LONG ago, so expect to see it in about an hour. Thank you so much for your patience.

DREAMS

Chapter Eight: The Wrath of Gods

This had to work. It _was _going to work, wasn't it? No – she couldn't afford uncertainty. This _will _work.

Once again, Claire saw Peter's corpse, blood pooling around it. She bit back the tears. Once again, she saw Sylar's face in front of her, twisted into a sinister smile. Too many times, she'd been forced to see these things, and she was fed up.

Setting her jaw firmly, she stared right into the dark eyes of her nightmare with a look that said: That's enough.

'What's the matter, Claire?' teased Sylar, holding her wrists in a vice-like grip. 'Are you scared?'

'No,' she snarled. 'But you should be.'

With a strength that was only achievable in dreams, Claire jerked her arms from Sylar's grasp, stepped back, drew her right leg up behind her and..._kicked_. Sylar went cross-eyed. He fell to his knees, clutching his injured parts, and let out a strangled gasp.

And suddenly he wasn't Sylar anymore. In a flash of time faster than a blink he inflated, his hair was sucked back into his head and his face altered, became Maury Parkman's. He looked up at Claire, eyes full of fear and pleading. Her expression was like thunder. She was not having this _anymore_.

'How—' croaked Maury.

Claire smirked cruelly at the crumpled heap of a man. 'You may have trapped me in a nightmare, but it's still _my _nightmare, in _my _head. Once I realised that, I figured out that I could control it. I mean, why shouldn't I? It is _mine_, after all.' Drawing herself up to her full height, which was now something close to fifteen feet, she spoke in a voice as loud and deep as the universe. 'Now _get out_!'

-

Thin tendrils of smoke trailed from the barrel of the gun and mingled with the sterile air. There was a smell of burning tin mixed with raw meat. Mohinder stared in horror at what he'd done.

_I'm sorry, _he thought desperately. _Please forgive me..._

Most of Bob lay on the floor, staining the white, scrubbed marble red. The rest of him had exploded outward. His head was all over the glass, and there were _bits _sliding down it, leaving streaks of pink goo in their wake. Flecks of blood had ended up on Mohinder's face as well, and for a long while afterward he would remember their cold, sticky feeling on his skin. Without even noticing, he'd begun to shiver. The pistol dropped from his unprotesting hands and landed with a _clunk _beside the corpse that had been Robert Bishop. Tears, not of sadness but of shock, slid silently down Mohinder's cheeks.

Then he remembered about Maury, and instinct kicked in.

In one movement he scooped the gun up off the ground and swivelled round to face the man behind the glass. And found that he needn't have bothered. Maury Parkman was crouched in a corner of Claire's prison, clutching at his head in agony and muttering to himself in a language only the clinically insane understand. As Mohinder watched in terrified amazement, the girl on the slab opened her eyes slowly, like a great sleepy tortoise, blinked twice and focused her vision on him.

'Mohinder!' she cried. 'Dr Suresh! Can you untie me, please?'

-

Elle had tried to escape a few times, nearly turning Noah into hamburger during the last attempt, until Peter's muscles had recalled that he had superhuman strength. Now she was moping and swearing darkly under her breath because she had an exceedingly large purple bruise on her forehead where the whole world could see it. They had found a janitor's closet along the way, which was very convenient; Noah had forced Elle's hands into a pair of pink rubber gloves and fastened them to her wrists with duct tape, which he used to bind her wrists together as well. He said it was to stop her electricity. It was also humiliating. On top of all that, Bennet kept jabbing her between the shoulder blades with his gun to make her move faster! The man had _no _concept of common courtesy.

Because of their caution and distrust of Elle, Peter and Noah, with the blonde in front of them, were proceeding along the series of hallways via a kind of slow, furtive meander that even a snail would be hard put to call a crawl. Peter kept glancing behind him and into doorways as though he expected a mad axeman to leap out at him.

Eventually they reached a doorway that, big surprise, looked just like all the other doorways they'd passed. Elle stopped at it, and seemed to spot some distinguishing feature on it that the other two couldn't see.

'That's it,' she said resentfully. 'She's in there. _Now _will you let me _go_?' She struggled against the duct tape a little until Noah prodded her with the gun again and looked at her reproachfully.

'What, do you think we're stupid?' said Peter indignantly. '_You're _going in first.'

'That's right,' Bennet agreed, giving her another jab for good measure. 'Get moving.'

'Okay, okay!' she snapped. Grumbling about possible permanent damage to her spinal cord, Elle pushed open the door and poked her head inside. And then she screamed.

Peter and Noah, assuming the worst from this, shoved her out of the way as one man and scrambled into the room. The tableau that greeted them was not as awful as they'd expected, but it was still pretty bad. There was Mohinder, a gun in his hands and an expression of immense guilt on his face. They looked down at Bob's corpse, the source of the now-sobbing Elle's distress. They looked up at Bob's grey-and-pink nauseating squishy bits. Peter had to look away at this point to avoid being sick, so he turned back to address the mystery of Mohinder.

He was about to say 'Who are you?' but at that moment something caught Bennet's attention; he seized Peter by the elbow and dragged him to the little door leading into the room beyond the glass. He wrenched open the door as if it had done him some great personal offence and towed Peter through it.

-

The first person Claire saw emerge from the doorway was her father, and it was with indescribable relief that she yelled, 'Dad!'

When she saw who her father had brought with him, she could have died of happiness. And embarrassment. No girl likes for the guy she has a thing for to see her in a compromising position, and as far as positions go, this one – strapped down to a bed in a room with a crazy, scruffy old guy – was pretty compromising. Her face flushed red.

Then the earth crumbled into a million pieces because Peter Petrelli spun around, saw Claire and _remembered_.

_A sad smile in a high school hallway...a cheerleader, soaked in blood...sitting in a jail cell and being called her 'hero'...the blackness of death opening up, revealing her there, holding a bloody glass shard and grinning from ear to ear...the look of pain and anguish on her face as she pointed a gun at his head..._

Unfortunately he didn't have time to say anything, on account of what happened next.

-

Elle had managed to dislodge the duct tape by seizing one of the disturbing abstract paintings from the wall in the corridor, between her gloved hands, and smashing it viciously on the floor; the broken frame provided enough of a sharp edge for her to use as a kind of rough saw. Once her wrists were free and her hands thoroughly de-gloved, she wandered back into the ante-room and stared disbelievingly down at what remained of her father.

Tears welled up in her eyes as she knelt down beside him. Then, with a sudden shrillness that made the nearby, despondent Mohinder jump out of his skin, she screamed, 'No! _No_! NO! Daddy! _NO_!'

Sparks leapt from the tips of her fingers and the ends of her long hair as she stood up and faced Suresh with an expression of rage and vengeance that would have made Genghis Khan turn and bolt in the opposite direction. As more electricity formed inside her, the excess made her hair frizz up into a fearsome afro. Huge thick streaks of lightning stretched out from her, probing the corners of the room like insect's feelers. Elle lifted her arm and pointed a threatening finger at Mohinder, who was positively _cowering_, and spoke. Every word was like the wrath of gods.

'You killed him!' she accused. He immediately dropped the incriminating firearm, which clattered onto the bloodstained floor. 'You killed my Daddy!' she cried. '_I'll kill you!_'

Reaching out her other arm, Elle cupped her hands together. All of the electrical energy that had been flowing across her body leapt into her palms, making a fizzling, spitting orb that hung in midair between them. Mohinder stared at it, frozen to the spot and hypnotized by the thing. The furious woman drew her right arm back up behind her head, the lightning ball following it in a graceful arc, and then she swung it back around and hurled the ball at Mohinder. It smacked right into his thin chest and he was launched backward, his body shattering the screen of glass and continuing onward until he ended up in a bloody, crackling heap at the other end of the room.

Some shards of glass fell from the top of the lintel with a delicate tinkle, as is always the case in these situations.

Then Noah raised his gun and fired three shots. With that, Elle was dead.


	9. Chapter 9: One Last Thing

DREAMS

Chapter Nine: One Last Thing

Bennet lowered his weapon and surveyed the grisly scene in the ante-room over the top of his glasses, just for a moment. Then, shoving the gun back into his jacket pocket, he hurried to the limp, bloodied form of Mohinder.

Meanwhile, Peter was struggling to undo the buckles on Claire's restraints. He was having trouble seeing them through the wet blur clouding his eyes. So he decided to get her free the easy way; grabbing a large chunk of the stiff leather in each fist, he _heaved _the straps upward until the screws that held them in place popped out, and then he tossed the straps aside. Claire sat up and stretched her back until her aching vertebrae cracked loudly, then turned to her saviour with tears in her eyes and flung her arms round his neck gratefully, desperate to be as close to him as she could. She whispered his name, and his spine tingled.

_She smells like coconut, _he thought dreamily. To their equal dismay, Noah's yells broke their warm sanctuary.

'Peter! I need some help over here! He's still alive, but he won't be for much longer.' Blood pooled beneath Mohinder, seeping out from his back, where impossibly large chunks of glass were stuck in him like the most terrifying acupuncture needles ever made. A hole had been burned into the front of his shirt. Both the material at the edges and the skin underneath were scorched and blackened, and miniscule sparks still danced lazily across his chest. A glistening line of crimson ran from the corner of his mouth down to his chin.

Peter gently lowered Claire off of her makeshift bed, staring in horror at the wounded man as his brain threw up forgotten memories of Mohinder.

'What can we do?' asked Peter, then both he and Bennet turned to look at Claire as she gasped.

'My blood!' she said. 'They took a whole lot of blood from me to test! They said it had healing abilities!'

Her father's face, as it went from deadpan to utter mental sunrise, was quite a thing to see. 'There should be a laboratory somewhere on this floor. The blood samples will be there. Find it!' he commanded.

-

The blood was found. The blood was administered.

Little tink-tinks indicated that the pieces of glass in the professor's back were being pushed out of his flesh by his healing tissue, like incredibly sharp, malevolent daisies sprouting from the earth. When the noises died down, Noah and Peter carried the man over to the middle of the room and deposited him carefully on the slab. This didn't present much difficulty, as he was incredibly light. Then, together with Claire, they watched in astonishment as the disfiguring burn mark that covered most of his torso was covered over by a growth of brand new skin, slightly less tanned than the rest. Black ash still surrounded it, but that was nothing that a nice shower couldn't cure. Mohinder's eyelids fluttered open.

'I'm not dead,' he said, shocked.

'That's right,' said Noah cheerfully, smiling down at him. 'Can you stand?'

'I think so.'

With some effort, Mohinder was helped to his feet. Bennet took one of his arms and slung it over his shoulder. Then, master of tact that he was, he addressed his daughter and her rescuer, somewhat disgruntled.

'I expect you'll want to do something about him?' With a nod he indicated Maury Parkman, who had adopted the foetal position in the corner. 'We'll wait outside for you.'

Greatly resembling two people who'd been on the drink all night, he and Suresh made their way unsteadily out into the hall and into the elevator. Peter and Claire watched them go, awkwardly avoiding one another's gaze, and then Peter turned and saw Maury for the first time.

'Who's he?' asked Peter.

'He's one of the men that brought me here,' Claire replied, eyeing Parkman with every sign of great dislike. 'He traps people in nightmares and tortures them, makes you see...terrible things...' Her voice trailed off as her eyes glossed over in painful recollection. Peter looked from the dishevelled man to the girl, face impassive.

'He did that to you?' He didn't really need to ask, however; he'd already seen the answer in her expression and the way she seemed to lean back to get further away from the man. Peter crossed the floor in five swift steps and glared in disgust at Maury. Reaching a decision, he slammed Parkman into the wall and raised him into the air, using his telekinesis. Maury's stubby legs kicked and, to Claire's horror, he began to make choking noises that sounded like rocks being ground together.

Peter was killing him. And, as much as she despised her torturer, Claire couldn't let that happen.

'Peter,' she said, walking over to him and placing a hand gently on his arm. She tried not to get distracted by how warm and soft he was. 'Peter, let him go. This isn't right.'

He kept his eyes on Maury as he said, 'Not right? Was it _right_, what he did to you?'

'No, it wasn't,' Claire admitted, speaking more urgently now because the choking noises were becoming alarmingly more feeble. 'But that doesn't justify this!' Peter remained stony-faced, so she gave her voice a pleading tone. 'Please, Peter. Don't do this. I don't want you to become a murderer because of him—because of _me_.' Claire was beginning to cry again, but she paid her tears no mind. 'I couldn't live with the guilt.'

Peter turned to her, prepared to offer some kind of retaliation, but thought better of it. What he was doing was making Claire miserable, and her sadness was worse than the stab of a knife to him. Slowly, relentingly, he released Parkman, lowering him to the ground.

'I'm sorry,' he said, staring intently at his shoelaces.

She gave him a wet smile. 'I know. It's all right.' Taking his hand and squeezing it comfortingly, she added, 'Come on, my dad's waiting for us. Let's go home.'

Claire tried to tug him to the doorway but he resisted, looking thoughtful.

'Just one last thing,' said Peter. He took the girl gently by the elbows, pulled her towards him and kissed her.

And she kissed him right back.

-

It was a month later.

On Noah's instruction, Matt Parkman had headed a police raid on the Company's headquarters in New York, where he'd found and arrested his father Maury for the abduction of Claire Bennet and the murders of Robert and Elle Bishop. It was obvious, the police concluded, that Maury had snapped, killed his two colleagues and then gone totally mad. No one challenged this verdict. After rigorous psychological conditioning, Parkman Senior had become lucid enough for questioning and had revealed the locations of other Company facilities around the world. Several of the organisation's key players were still at large, but Matt assured everyone that it was only a matter of time until they were found and apprehended.

Mohinder Suresh, having been given a new outlook on life and a particular insight into its fragility, chose to return to his original mission: seeking out people with abilities and helping them to understand what they've become. Molly, of course, made him promise to come back and visit on holidays and for her birthday. On this last point she was _very _insistent.

Since the danger that the Company presented was pretty much gone, Noah and his family moved back to their old home in Odessa, Texas and became the Bennets again. Claire didn't accompany them, however. She had only just gotten Peter back in her life and had no desire to be apart from him again. Instead she argued with her parents that she was old enough to make her own choices in life and decided that she'd be living in New York from then on. Of course, she didn't tell her mother who she'd be living there _with_. Noah agreed that this was a wise decision.

Peter rented a new, bigger apartment in the city for the two of them to share. It was going to be difficult, they knew. A lot of people would object to their relationship and they would have to struggle against the odds to stay together, struggle for a long time. But that didn't matter, because they were happy. Sure, it would be difficult, but they'd make it work.

After all, it's common knowledge that love isn't easy. But that doesn't mean you should give it up.

The end.

* * *

AN: And that's it! Thanks for reading.


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